Cin Vhetin
by Heretic.Knight.515
Summary: Clones don't live easy lives. This has always been a given for Boomer, one of the last Fett clones still on his feet, fighting for an Empire he doesn't believe in, for brothers that are long dead. Boomer is worn raw, when salvation comes in the form of a T-slit visor. When a clan of Mandalorians lift him out of his former life, Boomer might just find out what it means to be free.
1. Chapter 1

**_AN: Well, here goes nothing. Let's see if the saddle is as comfortable as I remember. Please let me know what you think of this story. I'll update the next chapter on 1-8-2014, at noon, and I mean to hit you guys with a new chapter every Wednesday, on the dot._**

**_Warts and all. Let's start this shit up._**

**_-Knight_**

**Chapter One**

_Get to know your men. Trust them, and they'll trust you. Take a night out._

Sergeant Boomer didn't like Captain Jervai, and especially didn't like being condescended to. But he knew an order when he heard it—especially when the large-denomination credit chip had been set on his cot.

Boomer thought a cantina should be more populated, especially during a time like this. He'd mourned many of his clone brothers over an ale, illicitly supplied by his Jedi padawan Commander. But it seemed that normal humans—mongels, like his new squad—didn't have the same reaction. Maybe they thought going drinking the day after the destruction of the Death Star seemed too celebratory. These days, anything that could be construed as anti-Empire could get you locked up.

_I know what it's like to be part of a team. I don't expect clone-level cohesion from your new squad, but I do expect you to be a functional unit._

A decade of sterile Kaminoan hell had left Boomer strong and competent. Two decades of war—in a galaxy more tantalizing than he would ever get to experience—left him jaded and bitter. Out of his company, less than a third survived the Clone Wars. From his original squad of brothers, only Splice had survived—and he bit it on the Star.

Surviving eleven kinds of droid death, only to get killed in a senseless space battle—a battle in which infantry had no chance to affect—seemed like the hundredth proof to Boomer that the universe took a perverse joy in the pain of sentients. He'd lost two other squad members on the Star—mongrels, non-clone replacements for his original podmates—but only Splice had mattered. His last true brother.

Boomer ignored his men, staring into his tankard. Thinking. _If I'd been onboard, I'd be dust, too._ He was painfully familiar with survivor's guilt.

A boisterous laugh broke his reverie. Boomer glanced up, ready to reorganize the organs of a potential lout, when he realized the noise came from his table. One of his people were guffawing like a lung-spasmed nerf.

Thom Garave, he remembered the stormtrooper's name. Fresh out of training without a single blaster scar. Boomer remembered what that was like. What he didn't understand was Thom's blonde hair and upturned nose. He was other, different, almost another species compared to the exacting sameness of Fett clones.

Boomer spent the Clone Wars surrounded by the same face: his own, copied thousands of times over. He had known his men by their walks, their tones, and their expressions. The sheer difference expressed in Thom turned Boomer's stomach.

Judging by the stupid grin on Blue's face, he was the one who cracked the joke. Blue was a clone, too, but not hailing from Kamino. He was from a different genome, Spaarti-grown; bred and born, adult, in just a year. But not naive and incompetent, like Boomer had heard about the flash-trained Spaarti clones. Blue had served the Empire for almost three years, making him very nearly good enough to have earned his white armor. Spaarti clones learned exponentially fast, compared to baseline humans. They had to, to survive hitting the deck running. Many of them didn't. Blue was either lucky, or had something special from the start.

Boomer's eye was unconsciously drawn to what stuck out the least: Squad 54's third new member, Genra Fairn. The smallest of the bunch, a mongrel like Thom. Genra was quiet and soft-spoken. But Boomer had reviewed all his new member's scores, and Genra was an exceptional marksman, a talented medic, and had excellent situational awareness. Math didn't lie. He was almost as good as a Fett clone, and that was saying a lot.

"You really can glare daggers, Sarge," Thom chuckled. "The boys in the Two-Oh-Nine weren't lying."

The Two-Oh-Nine had been the division of Stormtroopers running Death Star security. There had been thousands of them. Twenty-two had survived. Boomer highly doubted that Thom had just run into one. And that, coupled with the fact that Thom was from a fairly wealthy mid-Rim merchant clan, meant the newbie had pulled strings to get Boomer's personnel record.

Boomer knew it could be done. The Republic had been corrupt, and despite its harsh attitude, the Empire wasn't much better.

He looked his new member dead in the eye. "Did they."

"Yeah," Thom said, blinking. Boomer smiled a clone smile, a subtle expression that mongrels rarely caught. He didn't need to explain how he knew Thom was an idiot. He just had to stare. Fear was a good motivator, and Thom had just put himself on point in Squad 54's next mission.

But instead of backing off, Thom doubled down. "What, you calling me a liar?"

"I'm calling you an imbecile." Boomer said.

The mongrel stood up like a gundark, chest puffed out, trying to assert superiority in a pack. In Boomer's experience, alcohol tended to bring out the true nature of people. It seemed like the second liquor touched Boomer's tongue, his patience for social niceties evaporated. When given a nice glass of Mandalorian _tihaar_, Splice had been the most generous and kind-hearted man Boomer had ever known. _Why is he dead, and why is this _chakaare_ still breathing?_

"I was going to tolerate being bossed around by half a man," Thom grinned stupidly. "But I'm not taking that lying down, clone."

"Hey, now," Blue said, smile disappearing. "That was pretty kriffing rude."

Boomer set a hand on Blue's shoulder, keeping him in his seat. He wanted Thom all for himself. "I got this, son."

"What, you seriously think I'm scared—"

Thom wasn't wearing his helmet, so Boomer's rabbit punch hit him square on the nose. Not enough to break anything, but more than enough to stun the mongrel and make his eyes water. In the several seconds it took Boomer to casually stroll around the circle table, Thom did nothing but curse and hold his head in his hands.

A man in armor was particularly hard to disassemble with your hands. Plastoid was next to useless against blasterfire, but even a thin layer could protect kidneys, eyes, and the vulnerable point where the spinal cord met skull. A good vibroblade would do against stormtrooper armor, in a pinch, but Boomer wasn't looking to kill his new recruit.

So instead, Boomer grabbed Thom's arm, twisted it out straight, and kept going. Tendons, ligaments, and dozens of muscles were pulled right up to their breaking point. Thom screamed, and Boomer kept his grip tight.

"You see, maggot, I'm more soldier than you'll ever be. At this point, I could do this—" Boomer turned the elbow at a right angle and yanked up "—and dislocate your shoulder. That would hurt a lot. Or I could do this—"

He straightened out the arm and put a hand to the elbow, applying pressure. "—and snap your arm in a direction it wasn't meant to go. Which would also hurt a lot, and for a lot longer. I was mainly taught to kill—Kaminoans were good about teaching anatomy—but I know plenty of ways to maim.

"Nothing to upset the Captain, of course. A little bacta and you're right as rain, well before our first deployment together. A little teambuilding exercise, that's all it was. I didn't mean to hurt little Thom, I swear. So what'll it be, kid? Dislocation or snapping?"

Thom wimpered incoherently.

"If you were made of sterner stuff, you would ask for dislocation. So I'm going to do you a favor, and pick it for you."

"_Ahhh_! Mother of—"

"You're welcome," Boomer leaned in close. "If you ever disrespect me again, I'm going to hurt you. I can snap your arm, twist hard, and take it off from the elbow down. Wookies' got _nothing_ on me, boy. Understand this: you will fear me like the sadistic _shabuir_ I am, and you're going to obey every order I give you, and if you're very, very lucky, that will keep you alive. Are we clear?"

"Y-yes, Sarge."

"I must have been struck deaf for my sins. I said, are we clear?"

"Yes sir, sergeant!"

"Good." Boomer let go and backed up. After a quick dust-off, he turned to the table. "Blue, get Garave and Fairn back to base. Until I'm there, you're in charge."

"Yes sir, Sergeant."

"Once you get there, Private Fairn, set this man's shoulder. Don't give him any painkillers or bacta, though. This'll heal slow, and heal right."

"Yes sir, sarge!" Genra barked, headed to Thom.

Boomer looked around at the frozen bar. Everyone was staring at him. "Just a little in-squad disciplinary action, people. Go back to your drinks."

He gave his squad a quick salute as they made for the exit. He'd followed Captain Jervai's vague order, and left a strong lesson in the minds of his men. A success by any standard.

Thinking for a moment, he decided against another ale. As he reached the door, a red-armored Mandalorian stepped in front of it. Looking right at him, hand on the holster of an expensive-looking blaster. Boomer's hand instinctively touched his own pistol, ready for real trouble.

"What can I do for you, kid?" He asked.

"I think a better question is, what can I do for you?"

Careful to not let his head movements give it away, Boomer let his eyes flicker to the Mandalorian's blaster, an instinct to size up threats. It looked like no other weapon he'd seen.

"You like? It's Verpine. Top gear, this."

Boomer barely stopped himself from recoiling. With his helmet on, the Mando shouldn't have been able to see where he was looking. Either he was inordinately proud of his fancy blaster, or he had sensors in his helmet that let him see through plastoid.

"This weapon could blast through you, kill the guy behind you, and keep going all the way to Coruscant," The Mando lightly shook his head. "Though I wouldn't need much more than a slingshot to penetrate that rig. What's that armor made of, recycled drink containers?"

"It takes more than good kit to make a soldier," Boomer replied, as rock steady under threat as he ever had been.

"True. _Verd ori'shya beskar'gam_. But let's be civilized, and not give this bar any more stains. I've got an offer for you." The Mando let his hand slide off of the Verpine gun, but Boomer stayed cautious. The red warrior walked over to a booth, and despite himself, the sergeant followed.

"Not even gonna tell me your name?"

"First name'll do, for now. Aran, at your service. I'm a business associate of a mutual friend. A friend of a friend, you might say."

"I don't have any friends." Not since the Star.

The Mando chuckled. "You aren't his friend, but he sure is yours. He's got a thing for strays, you see, and for clones who get thrown away like 'fresher sheets."

Boomer shook his head. "I'm not a stray. I know exactly where I stand."

The Mando took off his helmet and set it on the table. He was younger than his voice let on, with close-cropped black stubble and a scar the size of a fist over his left eye. Dark eyes. Familiar. "Admirable. Enviable, even. But is it where you want to stand, or where you've been placed?"

"I was made to serve a purpose. I'm filling that purpose."

"You were made as a product, assembly-line manufactured by the millions to die in a war in which you had no stake," The Mando reached across and poked Boomer hard in the chest for emphasis. "A war which has been over for twenty years. Now you've been recycled, like the plastoid meatcan you are, fighting for a government and a set of ideals that no longer exists. Your only tether left was your brothers. _Was_."

It hit home on every point, with more force than Boomer could remember letting himself feel, but he was a Fett clone. He had faced fire and death and murderous metal. He was phased, but he wouldn't let an impudent savage know it. His was stubborn as old durasteel. "You're remarkably well-informed."

"I am," Aran said. Then he leaned in closer. "I'm not offering you charity. There's a job coming up, with a big payout and surprisingly little moral complication. Needs a lot of hands—and my friend and I both appreciate solid soldiers, no matter where they started life."

He stood up. "If you're scared of leaving, no one would blame you. You've been meat for a long time. But if you want to be a person, a person with the means to make your own life, the option is well within reach."

The Mando set something small on the table. It was a covert comlink. Boomer had seen one like it only once, when he was attached to Imperial Intelligence for a mission. Untraceable, undetectable. He didn't truly understand why, but he took it, and slid it under the top of his chestplate.

"Good man," The Mando said, with a genuine-looking smile. "And I mean that. Ring me up at oh-four hundred, tomorrow morning. We'll get you free."

And then he stood up and left.

Boomer had no idea what had just happened.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: A bit shorter, but a lot meatier. Sorry I missed the upload date, even if it was only by a few hours; I've been a little busy. Moved into the dorms, started classes, and realized I hated all things related to ramen noodles and the science of nutrition. I don't mean all of that, of course. Ramen is love; ramen is life.**

**But nutrition can go die in a hole. But I digress. I've got one more chapter of time-saver, so I've got a week to pump out at least one more chapter. Piece of cake. Especially considering my new coffee maker.**

_Offense is just another form of defense. _Variations of this thought spent the night twisting and turning inside Boomer's gray matter.

Stormtroopers, Star Destroyers, and all the rest of the Imperial war machine were meant for offense. Forward deployment. Force projection-keeping the pressure on, so the bad guys didn't have a chance to organize. The rebels had only become as strong as they did because they hid in the shadows. Building their strength, consolidating their power, and preparing for a big move—the kind of military push that the Empire pulled off every day, all across the galaxy.

Boomer didn't begrudge them their attack on the Death Star, or their success in destroying it. Military power wasn't right or wrong; it was a tool, a means for governments to express their will. The Empire had slipped up, and the Rebel Alliance scored a win. Good for them. What scraped the bare nub of Boomer's soul was the loss of so many lives. For the rebels, in a vague way, and for the strong men and women he had reluctantly come to care for. But especially for his lost brother.

The Imperial Army had stumbled with the loss of the Death Star. Forward units weren't ready to throw down at the drop of a hat. Survivors, deserters, and reserve units were gathering up. They were scrambling to organize into cohesive units—like how Captain Jervai had bribed Boomer to get to know his new squad—and would be for days. Scattered ashes needed to be re-formed, but until then, the tent cities of aimless personnel would be there.

Boomer didn't know what planet they were squatting on, and until the Mando's offer, hadn't cared. It was just another hot, dry rock to him. Further examination might lead to him enjoying the place, and he couldn't have that. Because he would eventually leave to go fight for a different rock, and because no matter how much he wanted to, he would never get to enjoy it. He knew the world of civilian life wasn't for him. It was for trillions of others. Lessers. Randomly-conceived and birthed. But they had the galaxy, and he didn't.

When he called the comlink, a computer-generated voice gave him a set of coordinates. A quick check at a nav unit told him it was barely two klicks away. Just outside the tent city.

He spared a glance for the sleeping squad. Thom apparently bruised easily, because his nose and eyes were a lovely shade of purple. He had tossed and turned most of the night. Private Fairn was still sleeping like a civilian, but that would be ironed out soon enough. Blue slept like a rock, but could be up and ready for a fight in sixty. Boomer knew because he was the same way. When he did manage to sleep. Unlike last night.

He thought they would manage without him. Well, except Garave. He'd fall in the first skirmish. Boomer found that he didn't mind the idea too much.

Under his cot was a small locker, containing the plastoid plates and black bodysuit. Under that, folded sharply, was his parade uniform. Boomer frowned. He didn't have anything else to wear. Strictly speaking, he didn't own any of what he _could_ wear. His parade uniform didn't have a holster. And Boomer would rather go in naked than unarmed. He slipped on the black bodysuit, along with the gray dress pants. On a whim, he left the gloves. Then he went to the squad arms locker, grabbed the biggest blaster pistol he could find, and started walking.

Boomer's frown deepened as he followed the nav unit's directions. It wasn't programmed with roads or buildings, just distance and vector, and he quickly found himself in a slum. Cheap, tiny, and mass-produced apartment buildings lined the street.

The nav unit pointed him twenty meters directly ahead, right in the middle of the deserted, early-morning street. Right to a humanoid wrapped in a black cloak. Something about the shape felt very familiar to Boomer. Under the midnight getup, he could be packing serious firepower. But something in Boomer's gut told him a blaster was the least of his worries. The man stood with a kind of surety, a power, that he hadn't seen in a long time.

Then Boomer remembered. He hadn't seen someone like that since Order 66.

His blaster was at the ready in a second. Force-users of any stripe were dangerous, and he'd heard the rumors, just like anyone else who'd been in the army for so long. The hushed, whispered stories of the Hands. Cleaning up the Emperor's messes with Force power.

Messes like executing traitors.

"Fierfek." Boomer hated himself for falling for it. With the kind of millisecond accuracy that only a Fett clone could pull off, he snapped off two quick shots at the cloaked man's head, while leaping for a heavy trash can; the only nearby cover.

Not nearby enough. Good Force-users could snap blaster bolts at their source with ease; Boomer knew he should be feeling them. But when the red lightsaber flickered up, it bounced the bolts into the ground.

Boomer fired again with his right hand, and prepped a thermal det with the other. He wasn't going to go down easily. Then he noticed movement in his peripheral vision.

Mandalorians were popping out of the woodwork. A silver Mando popped from behind a rail, with a heavy pistol. A blue-and-yellow shadow peeled from the shadow of a speeder. A red-and-green merc strolled out of the alley with a blaster rifle. He was closely followed by a childlike bit of crimson. Too small to be a soldier. But it had a T-slit helmet like any of them.

And then Boomer's friend from the cantina climbed out of a speeder with tinted windows.

Save for the child, all of them were pointing nasty-looking weapons at him.

Boomer froze. Killing a Force-user would be difficult, but not entirely outside his field of expertise. Difficult, but doable. The kriffing Mandos were the bigger problem. They were professional soldiers: as skilled as he was, but better equipped. And he was facing four and a half of them.

"Wait, Boomer? Easy, people. _Udesii_." Aran said, gesturing at the other mercenaries. "Boomer, what's wrong with you?"

"I wasn't expecting an ambush." The clone called from behind cover. The thermal detonator was still primed. If he released his thumb halfway, the five-second timer would start. If he threw it, it would blow on impact.

"Ambush?" Aran barked. "This is just us being careful. What if you had ratted to Imperial Intel? We could be drowning in Imps. What did you expect, flowers and a pleasure cruise?"

"I'll tell you what I didn't expect," Boomer shouted, staying down. "A kriffing saber-jockey. What are you playing at, Mando?"

"Stang." The blue Mando said like grinding gravel. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have you take point, Darter. Sorry about that, _ner vod_."

The still-hooded Jedi—if that's what he was—shook his head. "No, it's all right. It's easy to forget that Palps' thugs are as big a threat to his own people as they are to us." He reached back and pulled down the hood, revealing a surprisingly normal, if rough-cut, face.

Boomer stayed ready for a shootout. Aran sighed.

"I suppose proper introductions are in order," He said. "My name is Aran Skirata. The blue one is Jate Gurundar. Miss Silver is Cyar Gilamar."

The red-and-green Mando stepped up, leading the youngling. "And I'm Corr. This is my boy, Oyar. Say hello, son."

"Hi." The child said.

"And I'm Darter Sidan. I'm no friend of our Most High And Excellent Slimeball, Palpatine." The Dark Jedi grinned. "Pleased to meet you."

Boomer stayed down.

Aran let out an exasperated groan. "This is getting old. Get your _shebs_ out here, Boomer! If anyone noticed those shots, we'll be swimming in Imperials. And trust me, they'll kill us just as quick as you."

"They'll try, at any rate." Jate chuckled.

Boomer stood up, and noticed a distinct lack of blaster bolts in his face. His grim expression became one degree more amiable. "What's the plan?" He asked.

"Hop in the speeder with me and Jate." Aran said. "I figure you don't want to get in close quarters with Darter. That's fine. He'll ride with Corr and his boy in the other speeder. Come on."

Boomer put his blaster pistol away, walked over, and got in the speeder. But he kept his thumb on the detonator, just in case. After all, offense was just another form of defense.

**PS: Oh, and I started a blog or something, to promote this book I wrote or whatever. Check it out or something, maybe. *Awkwardly intense stare* Not that it's a big deal or anything! Heh. Heheheh.**

**blogger**

**.****com/****blogger**

**.****g?blogID**

**=6024271782189178360#allposts/postNum=1**

**Stupid site with it's stupid aversion to links. *grumble, grumble.* If any of you know any ways around that, I will pay you one cookie to tell me.**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: So far so good. Let me know what you guys think of this chapter.**

Boomer was surprised by how far the speeder didn't go. They touched down barely a kilometer from the city limits. Aran kept his bemused smile on the entire way, which Boomer found disconcerting. The Mandalorian had to have seen the detonator.

As they climbed out, Boomer disabled the det. Paranoia was exhausting—he was going to be free or die. If he was honest with himself, he would have to admit to being more prepared for the latter.

Jate opened the back and rummaged around inside. With athletic ease, he pulled out three hefty-looking packs and tossed one Boomer's way. He caught it, barely. It had to be at least a fifty kilos.

Aran grabbed one and slung it over his shoulder. His helmet was still on, but he was clearly grinning. "Up for a little hike, soldier?"

The other speeder passed overhead, landing a few meters away.

Boomer grunted. "I would be, if there was anywhere to go. This is just desert."

Jate chuckled. "First lesson, trooper. Know your battlefield. This planet's renowned for it's

quartz tunnels. It's quite a tourist attraction, to go roughing it underground."

"Never understood it, myself," Aran said. "I prefer trees to rocks."

"I'm right there with you, lad," Corr called from the other speeder, hefting his own pack. "But on the other hand, hey! I haven't had a vacation in ages."

"How does camping count as a vacation?" Darter laughed.

"Away from all that technological junk. Out in the free expanse of wilderness. Yadda yadda." Cyar pitched in.

"If it wasn't for that 'technological junk', we couldn't have even gotten here," Aran said.

"And a lot of that 'wilderness' would like to have us for supper." Corr said.

"That's just it, though," Jate grumbled. "I love a good fight as much as anyone. It's _natural_. But stupid tourists like to play it safe. All the interesting things out here are already dead."

"That's… good. Right?" Oyar asked, looking to his father.

Corr mussed his son's hair. "Yes, lad, that's good. You should never run from a fight, but it's just as bad to start one for no good reason."

Aran glanced at the sun, as if to mark its position, and nodded to himself. "We'd best get moving."

Boomer had always been proud to be a Fett clone. Later on, he learned to be proud to be a Kamino clone. The perfect genetics and training intermeshed to make him a perfect soldier. He could run faster, hit harder, and carry more than a regular human. Optimized. That was the word.

So when the Mandalorians started to pull ahead of him, he was more than a little confused. The packs looked like they weighed the same. They were hiking the same winding downward slope. But they were carrying their load, and their armor, with ease. It made Boomer uneasy.

When they arrived at a campsite, complete with fire pit and a drilled 'chimney', for the smoke, the Mandos walked the half-dozen tunnels around them. Ten or eleven meters out, they spiked each tunnel with a small sensor.

"Better watchman than I'll ever be," Corr joked.

After that, they pulled folding chairs from the packs, and sat down as heavily as Boomer did.

And then Corr took off his helmet.

"Stang. I love beskar as much as the next guy, but sometimes it can really drag a man down."

His short black hair was slick with sweat, which dripped down to dark eyes and a thick nose. If it wasn't for all the laugh lines and a cheery grin, Boomer could have been looking at his twin.

"You're a clone?" He asked.

"Yes, sir. Kamino, born and raised."

"But you…," Boomer's eyes trailed down to the kid, Oyar.

"Have a son? Oh, yes. My pride and joy, he is. Oyar, lad, let the poor white job see you without your bucket on."

The kid took off his helmet, and Boomer gasped. It was one thing to see a clone. He'd been seeing clones all his life. But Oyar was aberrant. The hair, skin, and jaw looked distinctly Fett-like. But his nose was smaller. His eyes were closer together, and when he gave a nervous smile, Boomer could distinctly see a mouthful of teeth ready for braces.

"Surprised, Boomer?" Aran asked.

"Yes." The concept of a life after the military was impossible enough. But the idea of having a life—a real life, with everything that had been denied him in such crisp context—was more than Boomer could have dreamed of.

"You shouldn't be. After all, you've seen my face, too."

Boomer took a closer look at the red Mando, and sure enough, familiar features started to emerge. He looked as much like a Fett clone as the boy Oyar. But Boomer couldn't begin to guess at his age; he looked nearly as weathered as Boomer himself.

"How is this possible?" He asked quietly.

"My grandfather made it happen. It can happen for you, too."

It was too much. Boomer found himself slipping into interrogation mode. "Who is your grandfather?"

"_Babuir_ Kal Skirata. One of the greatest men to ever meet the Manda."

"What do you mean? Is he…?"

"Dead, aye." Corr murmured. "Went to the Manda not a month ago. He went old and tired, as ready as any man to face his end. He found me when I was young, but otherwise, not much different than you, Boomer. Took me in, let me be a man."

"You and a dozen-odd others," Aran said. "Including my father. He was a family man, Kal. Died with more grandchildren than he knew what to do with."

"Heh." Jate grunted. "He had a lot of difficulty spoiling all of them."

"But he found a way," Corr laughed. "Oh yes, he did."

Somewhere along the line, the gentle reminiscing had escaped Boomer's understanding. It hadn't been for him, anymore. It was for a man better loved, dead, than Boomer was, alive. He couldn't help but feel a strange kind of sweet jealousy.

"I still don't understand how Dad misses him so much," Cyar wondered. "Makes me wish I knew the old man better."

"You think you're confused?" Boomer grumbled, shaking his head. "It's like you're all speaking another language."

"In a way?" Aran said. "We are."

"You mentioned a job."

Aran scratched his chin. "I did indeed. It's nothing major, but extra hands'll help. It's got nothing to do with either the Empire or the Rebellion, so no politics to get in the way."

"Spit it out. What's the job?"

Aran was unoffended. "A shipping company dug up an old Hyperspace lane. They've been using it to move cargo from Outer Rim dirthole to Outer Rim dirthole. And since the lane has just been reopened—and they think they're the only ones who know so—they're going to skimp on security. Unsuspected, undetected: a good, old-fashioned smash-and-grab."

Something turned in Boomer's gut. Disgust in no small part, but also a strange kind of vertigo: if he didn't agree with the job, he'd leave. But where could he go? "I didn't leave the Empire to be a pirate."

"I know. And this just might be piracy, if we were talking about any other cargo. But we're in luck, Boomer. The freighter we'll be hitting is hauling slaves."

"I don't understand." Jate finally said.

"Understand what?" Cyar asked.

The Mandalorians, plus one retired Stormtrooper, killed time with shut-eye. They needed to wait long enough to be sure that Boomer's absence wasn't being handled with the Empire's typical heavy-handedness. But either the post-Death Star tent city was more of a clusterkriff than they thought, or the Empire didn't truly care about its individual soldiers. The answer was too obvious to discuss.

Jate scratched under his left shoulder pauldron. "Why does the Empire use slaves?"

"Because they're cheap, right?" Oyar wondered, looking to his father.

"I would think so," Corr said. "No wages, or unions, or benefits beyond simple housing. Sounds cheap to me."

"But why not just use droids?"

After a good eight hours, the group cleaned up camp, not leaving so much as a speck of dirt that hadn't already belonged there. They were especially careful to retrieve all of the sensor spikes, counting them up. Then they hiked up and out of the tunnel network, walking almost opposite of the direction that they'd come in from. A beaten-up old ship had been waiting when they saw daylight.

"Meat is cheaper than metal." Boomer said quietly.

"How do you figure?" Cyar asked.

"You need to mine metal. Refine it, smelt it, whatever. And that's before you mold it, program it, and get it working. That costs. But meat's cheap. Calories and nutrients are cheap. And while you'd have to pay someone smart a lot to program metal, meat learns how to do its job without much prodding. And meat gets better as it goes."

The ship fell quiet.

"The Republic didn't do it that way," Aran murmured. "Not with you Kamino boys. They didn't grow you in just a year, and throw you out there to die, like the Empire's Spaarti clones. They made you men first. They taught you."

"Yeah," Boomer said. "They weren't as cruel, not at first. Not until we were mean enough to handle it. They didn't throw children in men's bodies to die for them."

Cyar pursed her lips, looking pretty in a way that Boomer had never seen. He noticed that her dark hair wasn't very short—it was pinned up against her head. She bounced her silver helmet from palm to palm. "Palpatine is slime."

"No question." Darter called back, from the cockpit. "Hitting Hyperspace in five minutes, by the way."

"But we don't get to fight him." She snarled. "If we want to fight the Empire, we've got to blast Stormtroopers. People who either didn't have a choice, or who volunteered because they were too _shabla_ stupid not to. It's not fair."

"War is a tool," Boomer said. "It's an expression of political will. Whether they picked the Empire or not, the people who fight on the Empire's side are fighting for the Empire's ideals. And that means they can't be too upset when someone blasts them. They're blasting right back."

Jate snorted. "Live by the blaster, die by the blaster?"

"More or less."

Darter Sidan

Aran Skirata::Red-and-black Armor::Son of Ordo and Besany

Cyar Gilamar::Silver-and-yellow Armor::Daughter of Mij and Uthan

Corr::Red-and-green Armor

Oyar::10 years old, starter red armor::Son of Corr and Jilka

Jate Gurundar::Blue and yellow armor


End file.
